


The Pack

by Paint Me a Symphony (youngerdrgrey)



Series: 1000 Theme Challenge [7]
Category: Wanted (2008)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-28
Updated: 2009-01-07
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngerdrgrey/pseuds/Paint%20Me%20a%20Symphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tales from our favorite wolf pack. Related oneshots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> (#302 of 1000, "Ghosts")  
> Mentions of torture.

His head breaks the white layer surrounding his face, freeing his lips and eyes from confinement. He wiggles his body a bit to shatter more of the substance caking his form. As he sits up, his gaze finds a person waiting. On her face is an unreadable expression. Despite that, he knows she has to be feeling something akin to frustration. All that training had to have gone to waste on him. He really is useless, he supposes.

He wants to say something about how sorry he is that he couldn't do it, but he cannot find the words to speak. He is not sorry. He did not -- and does not -- know anything about Robert Deane Darden. Killing him would have been wrong. A cloth should not choose a man's decisions. And, Wesley decides, it will not choose his.

"I'm not sorry," he tells her. It is meant to sound strong, but the chill of the liquid around him makes his teeth chatter a bit and his throat sound sore and scratchy.

"I figured you wouldn't be," she says. She walks over to him.

"I couldn't do it. I didn't think it was a good idea," he adds.

"I figured that too."

His eyes, which had been focused on her cool brown ones, pull back and away. There is something in them he can't decipher. Deep down, he is not so sure he wants to anyway. It is a mixture of disappointment, pain, and reminiscence so strong and startling that the origin seems almost as mystifying. He needs to erase the questions from his mind. So, he focuses on the disappointment she holds, that will be a good distraction, and that he is used to.

"You guys have some operation going on here. Beating people up, cutting them, putting them in strange tubs, shooting people because a guy tells you to. It's odd," he comments, "Very odd."

"You walked into this, Wesley," she reminds him.

"I did, I know. I don't think I knew exactly what it was I was entering though," he confesses. She looks on as if waiting for him to continue. A two-minute lapse of conversation later, and he is speaking once again.

"What did he do that he deserved to die? You don't know. I don't know if he was bad; I don't know if he was evil. I don't know anything about him. We got our orders from a loom. Fate. And we're supposed to take it on faith that what we're doing is right. Killing someone we know nothing about, I don't know if I can do that."

Fox watches him for a moment, stepping a bit closer as she does so. She moves to sit within the candles, rubbing her palms together slowly.

"About twenty years ago, there was this girl. Her dad was a federal judge, so she probably had it in her mind that she was gonna follow in his footsteps," Fox begins, she looks out into space a bit, "So, she's home one Christmas, and her dad's on this big racketeering case. The defendants want to get a softer judge, one they can buy off. So they hire this guy, Max Petridge, get him to pay her father a visit."

She looks at Wesley now; a cold, complacent look in her eyes that was not there before stares out into the candle-lit hall. She continues, "And the way he pays people a visit is to break in and tie up there loved ones, and force them to watch while he burns his targets alive," she pauses as if hearing the muffled, high-pitched screams once again, "And then he takes a wire hanger and twists it round and brands his initials into each one of them so they will never ever forget.

"After I was recruited into the Fraternity, I found out that Max Petridge's name had come up weeks before the federal judge was killed, and that a Fraternity member had failed to pull the trigger. We don't know how far the ripples of our decisions go. You kill one, and maybe, save a thousand. That's the code of the Fraternity. That's what we believe in, and that's why we do it."

She stands slowly from her spot by the candles. The movement causes her hair to rustle and settle on one side, exposing her neck. Etched into the would-be seamless skin are two letters: MP.

Wesley's blood runs cool with the realization. He watches her walk away, still envisioning the markings he saw on her retreating form.

The questions in his mind changes then. No more does he wonder "who was he?". He wonders, instead, "What has that bastard done?" He knows after this there will be no going in back, no returning to the life he had before. Especially not after what he's about to do.

He pulls his body up from the water, wrapping a towel around himself. He steps from the door and finds her learning against the wall opposite where he stands.

"So, when's the next time he'll be at the fifth window?" Wesley asks. She does not grin, or smirk, but he knows she has to be pleased somewhere in her heart. He just doesn't know if the pleasure will be enough to wipe away the haunting ghosts he sees reflecting in her eyes.


	2. Wesley, Get Your Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (#342 of 1000, "Her Name Was...")

The city lights burn bright against the dark night's sky. The ground and dirt is hard beneath the soles of their shoes. The conversation is light and unsatisfying. He longs for more out of her; more words, more interaction, more everything. He figures he will have to start with something small.

"So, what's your name?" he questions. She quirks a thin eyebrow up at him, and continues walking.

"Fox," she answers automatically.

"No, your real name," he clarifies.

"It's not important to your training," she dismisses.

"I think it is," he argues.

"It's a good thing you're not the teacher here then, eh?"

Her comeback rolls off the tongue smooth enough, but he can detect a hint of hostility. With women, it always has been the little things that mean the most. A name is practically your entire identity captured and pulled together with one single word. To give your name is to share part of your life, your desires, your failures and your conquests, with someone else. Another thing with women -- he has learned -- is that not all of them enjoy sharing, especially the little things. His wandering gaze hones in on her neck, as they do so often these days. A thought comes to him.

"Your story, the little girl, what was her name?" he asks, she narrows her suddenly frigid eyes, "I seem to have forgotten."

"You didn't forget. I never told you. Names aren't so important to a story like that one," she responds fluidly. He knows he is getting to her though. He pushes on.

"Except for Max Petridge," he points out, "The killer is always the important part. Certainly not the little girl forced to watch and hear her own father's death."

Fox's face draws downward in a deep frown. She says nothing to him, does not even look his way. He takes the hint then, going silent.

They get to the foot of his building. He opens the door and lets her go through first. As they climb the stairs, he decides they have had enough silence.

"Fox, I--"

"Shut up," she orders, "Say one more word, and I'll kill you myself. We'll find another way to get rid of Cross."

"I was just going to say that I should probably be in front," he lies quickly, "They're more likely to let me in than you."

He can practically see her roll her eyes from where he is behind her. Still, she steps to the side allowing him to pass in front of her. He pauses on the stairs at the top, turning towards her. She speaks before he gets the chance to.

"Wesley, get your gun," she commands, waving her hand to the side of the hallway. He sighs and turns. There is one other thing he knows about women. When they're done talking, they truly are done.


	3. Fate Intervenes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (#212 of 1,000 "Don't Hold Back")

Wesley turns from the room, death sentence in his hand, revenge and acceptance on his mind. Fox watches him leave. She forces her body stiff when a strange chill slithers down her back. She does not want him to go like this. She is positive that the second he confronts Cross, he'll be done for. Whether it be from the Fraternity, from life itself, or from her, she isn't sure; nor is she sure which is most unsettling.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she stresses. Her hands are tight around her midriff, holding herself together. Sloan grabs the papers on the desk, and hands them slowly to her. She looks down at the top page.

Wesley Alan Gibson.

_Damn._

"Your next assignment," Sloan says. She stares mutely for quite some time. This cannot be real, cannot be serious. An assignment like this is more than just Fate stepping in and trying to stop some crime spree from starting, or keeping back another revenge-driven assassin. It's pure torture. Before she knows she is doing it, she is nodding.

"Fine, she mumbles. She turns to leave the room. He does not let her.

"Fox," Sloan calls, stopping her, "You won't have much time. You must do it quickly and precisely. Don't hold back. We can't afford for something to go wrong."

She nods again.

"I understand," she tells him.

"I don't think you do," he disagrees gravely. He turns to look at her, "This is above and beyond what you've done before. You know his potential, and you know his weakness. You  _must_  do this."

"What gives you the thought that I won't?" she asks.

"I know you. I've seen how you act when around him. You're different almost like you're--"

"I'm not," she states, interrupting. She does not need to ask what he is thinking. It is clear as day on the older man's face everything he thinks about her.

"How can you be so sure?" he questions.

"How can you?" she retorts.

"Fate. There must be a reason you knew to step in and train him," Sloan says.

"No one else could have gotten job done," she says.

"They could have, just not with as little force as you used," he comments.

"Why use force when I don't have to? I save my aggression for my targets."

"Of that I do not doubt. But, I can't help but wonder if all your time together was simply preparing him, or if you were, instead, growing attached."

Her nostrils flared warningly.

"No more in this case than any others I have trained," she insists.

"There is no need to get all fired up. It is not too surprising for an assassin like yourself to fall weak," he says. Her eyes narrow on him.

"'An assassin like yourself'," she repeats, "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means nothing but someone in the game for a while," he assures.

"Why do I get the feeling that had to do with me being female?" she asks.

"Because, Kate, you doubt everyone around you from their guns to their motives. You don't fully listen, instead diving into the thrill and adventure the job entails. You never share your inner-fear and emotion out of a deficit created by your tragic past. The lapse of strength some twenty odd years ago makes you hunger for control. You seek it in plenty of ways, one of which is asking rhetorical questions to get the best of someone," replies Sloan.

Fox's jaw tightens even further. She turns around, stalking towards the door full speed.

"I'll see you when Wesley's rotting in the ground," she snaps, "And my name is Fox."

The door slams shut behind her. Sloan leans gently back against the table behind him. He breathes out easily, and reaches for the paper just a bit away. He turns it round reading a very different name than the one he just passed on. He shakes off the feeling of uncertainty, tucking the paper away. It isn't wrong per say; just Fate intervening.


End file.
